


Taste

by amateurwriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, John - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, Sherlock - Freeform, Tea, the tea tastes like John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 10:43:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2465342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amateurwriter/pseuds/amateurwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was absolutely distracted by an unspeakable sweetness mingled with a wonderful hint of firm bitterness. The usual, familiar flavour of tea was gone underneath the taste of John's lips on the rim of the mug. John's lips touched the mug.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste

**Author's Note:**

> The first Sherlock fic I decide to publish. Comments and kudos highly appreciated! :)  
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of BBC Sherlock, I only borrow them as inspiration for my writing.

John was sitting by the table in the 221B Baker Street's living room, reading the paper. A plate with toasts was situated right by his side along with two mugs of tea - one for him and one for the consulting detective. Said detective was currently pacing around the room and muttering something incomprehensible. The calm doctor learnt a long time ago not to interrupt this state of thinking, nor trying to understand it's subject. All he could do, was to look out for the signs of the brilliant mind coming out of the mind palace, ready to converse about the most recent discoveries.

John loved mornings like that. He had the time to enjoy his breakfast, catch up with latest news, listen to steady breathing of his flatmate and the clutter of London waking up. He also anticipated the following conversation, sure to find about something fascinating, important or just simply ridiculous in the most sherlock-ish way.

Sherlock's footsteps became slower and more deliberate, so John's focus was divided between the interesting article and further indication of Sherlock's mind actually being in the room. The doctor absentmindedly reached for his tea, took a sip and screwed his face in discontent as he tasted the oversweetened liquid.

"That's mine." informed Sherlock as he took the mug out of John's hand and started drinking it himself.

_'Ah, so the genius is back'_ thought John and turned around in his chair to face his friend. But Sherlock stopped dead on his track, staring at the mug in shock. He licked his lips slowly and the expression on his face might have been one of absolute contentment often displayed on crime scenes, or confusion that was so rare that John was not sure he interpreted it correctly.

The doctor promptly analyzed the course of the morning. Usually, the first thing he did after coming downstairs from his bedroom, was setting up the kettle. Today, he heard the water already starting to boil, so he went for the shower and after exiting the bathroom prepared some toasts. The steaming mugs of tea were already on the table and John was _sure_ Sherlock made them in an unexpected act of kindness. He must have been wrong.

"What? What did you put in that tea?" asked John with an air of irritation and worry, sure that he is about to hear of some new drug or poison, and already considering expelling the content of his stomach. He only took one small sip but it's _Sherlock_. God knows how lethal one little sip of his experiment might be.

"I- _you_ are in that tea." stated Sherlock stupidly.

Sherlock Holmes was absolutely distracted by an unspeakable sweetness mingled with a wonderful hint of firm bitterness. The usual, familiar flavour of tea was gone underneath the taste of _John's lips_ on the rim of the mug. _John's lips_ touched the mug. And how many times did Sherlock dream about touching those lips? Tasting them? Countless nights spent on fantasies, endless hours of wishful imagining. Each and every one held protectively within the walls of his mind palace, not ever voiced in fear of losing John. The overwhelming urge to finally _kiss_ John, to prod and trace the shape of those lips, feel their softness (or roughness? how could he know?). Watching the dexterous tongue fondle them every now and then, especially when John was amazed (that seems to be mostly in cases of Sherlock's deductions, which is a dreadful, sweet torture).

Touching John's lips with his own was out of question, but _that_? But how could he have never thought of _that_? Multiple cups of all kinds of beverages set around the whole apartment! How many opportunities to steal at least one and taste, deduce, examine? To _know_ instead of hateful _guessing_ what does John Watson taste like?

But now Sherlock knows. He tastes like home, comfort and danger - only that and so much more, all at the same time.

"What?" The most ridiculous image of Sherlock standing above John's sleeping silhouette and plucking his hair or swabbing the insides of his cheeks 'for science' came to life in the doctor's head. Or was it really that ridiculous in case of Sherlock? John shook his head at his own absurdity and re-focused on the curly-haired man in front of him.

"The mug. You drank from the mug. _Your lips_ touched the mug. The mug tastes like you." Sherlock was murmuring distractedly, not really directing his words towards John.

"Sherlock, are you all right? You're not making any sense." The incoherent sentences were making John worry more than his absent gaze.

"No." The look of bewilderment on John's face made the gears in Sherlock's brain start moving again, however lazily, and he was realizing what he had said. _John_. John _cannot_ know. He'll leave if he finds out. He will be disgusted, revolted. He will leave. _SHUT UP_. "Yes. Yes, of course I am all right. Why wouldn't I be all right? Really, John, what is going on with you lately? It's like you've stopped trying to keep up." That was not true. John always keeps up. The only human being on the whole planet that is able to keep up with Sherlock Holmes. In his own pace, in his own way, but eventually he always gets things right. But maybe he could just make him mad a little bit for a moment, John would go to his room or for a walk and Sherlock would have some time alone to _examine_ _that_ _mug_.

" _Don't_. I know what you're doing and it stopped working a long time ago." Of course it did.

"Now you are the one not making sense." Sherlock said in a futile attempt to end the conversation.

"You're insulting me to divert my attention and make me drop the subject you're uncomfortable with."

"I do _not_ do such thing." Damn, John is good. Apparently, he is able to read Sherlock like Sherlock reads a crime scene. This is problematic. And hot. _No. Don't go there, not now._ He turned on the balls of his feet and made his way to the kitchen.

"Oi, Sherlock!" John's anger was easy to spot in his tone and the loud shuffle of the chair as he stood up and followed Sherlock. The detective stopped right by the table, but kept clutching the mug in both of his hands, not willing to put it down any time soon. "Why are you ignoring me?"

"That's preposterous, I'm not ignoring you. The conversation was over so I left the room."

"Over? There barely is a conversation to begin with!" John was honestly concerned now. He knew all of Sherlock's moods, his huffs of annoyance at other people's stupidity, his bursts of irritation at boredom, his hair-pulling caused by a puzzle he couldn't solve quickly enough. But this was new - Sherlock seemed... lost? Was that even possible? The great detective was never lost, he never doubted. Beside... beside that one time in Baskerville. He had gotten drugged and became overwhelmed by _emotions_ , the only thing that the genius seems not to be able to understand. "What is going on?" John asked, softly this time, wary of his friend's vulnerability.

"Nothing is going on." he stated as his fingers tightened around the mug that he was currently holding tightly against his chest.

"Then give me that mug."

" _No_."

"Why not?"

"It's mine."

"We both know that you have no respect for the boundaries of ownership whatsoever. Or any boundaries for that matter."

"Oh, what does it matter? It's just tea, _my_ tea with too much sugar in it, why do you want it so badly?" Sherlock was desperately trying to reason John into not taking the mug away from him. Which was not reasonable at all, clinging to that particular mug at the moment was driving all John's attention to it. The smart thing to do was to just dismiss it, but Sherlock could not make himself do it.

"Why do _you_ want it so badly? What did you do to that tea, Sherlock? I took a sip and then you take it away from me, start hyperventilating and saying it tastes like me!"

"I didn't say that."

"What?"

"What?"

"Sherlock, for the love of God, stop repeating after me and answer the damn question."

"Did I say that out loud? The thing about the... you tasting..." and that again - not finishing the sentences, confusion in his eyes.

"Yes, you said it out loud. How else would you say it? In your head? Do you often consider the taste of me in your head?" John was trying for a joke, in hope that maybe loosening the atmosphere a bit would help.

"Yes." Sherlock blurted and right after that yelled "NO!" but the damage was done, John was not stupid and by now he had all the evidence necessary.

"Oh. _Oh_." was all John could say, suddenly astonished with the possibilities brought by one short 'yes'. Because it was possible now, wasn't it? The 'married to my work' declaration becoming invalid, 'alone protects me' losing its genuineness. John's silent longing for the most marvelous man in the universe redefined into 'possible to reveal'.

All of a sudden, John noticed how close to each other were they situated. The quite heated argument brought them standing face to face, less than two feet apart. And always, _always_ in the moment of realization like that, he took a step back to re-gain his own personal space and grant Sherlock his. But not today, not _now_.

Now was the moment when, for the very first time, John Watson collected all his courage and took a step forward. He crowded Sherlock, their faces separated by mere inches of hot air, that were there only due to their height difference. He could feel the radiating heat of Sherlock's body, almost hear the heart racing as fast as his own. Three longest seconds of their lives fled in pressing silence, eyes locked together and lips twitching in invitation.

And then Sherlock was the one to take the step forward. The whole length of his body was pressed against John's smaller frame and their lips has _finally_ met. The shy, questioning touch quickly became more bold, lips parting, breaths escaping and tongues colliding.

John felt long arms circling around his back, warm fingers travelling along his spine. Small shudder crossed his body and his own hands moved up - one to rest on Sherlock's chest, the other tangled in the dark curls. A smile, the most genuine expression of happiness that has ever appeared on the detective's face, made it's imprint on the doctor's lips and they both were beaming in the kiss they shared, until the last remains of air left their lungs.

Sherlock buried his face in the crook of John's neck and marveled at the closeness of him, the smell and warmth of the breathtaking army doctor in his arms. How can tea taste like John, but John - when kissed - tastes like tea? This must be a part of wonder that is John Hamish Watson.


End file.
